


And Goliath

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Community: cornerflag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are, in fact, four Davids on Valencia CF, but only one of them is David, really, truly and completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Goliath

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for cornerflag in 2007. it is also the first DV/DS fic I think ever written (in English, anyway.) so that's kind of cool.

There are, in fact, four Davids on Valencia CF, but only one of them is _David_ , really, truly and completely. Silva (David to his mother and David Josué Jiménez Silva on his birth certificate) realizes this on his third day of training. He’s standing next to David (David Villa on the backs of his jerseys), hands on his hips, when Flores calls out his former name. They both start trotting in his direction when Flores calls, “No, not you Silva. Just David.”

So Silva stops.

After practice, one time, two times, ten, eleven, he stays and takes penalties, one after another, until his dad comes to pick him up, late from work again. Sometimes someone stays with him, Albiol, Joaquin, once or twice even Morientes (Morientes, who won three Champions League trophies and who says, “Good one, kid.”)

He can see his breath, sometimes, as it gets colder and the year turns towards winter. A ball to the lower right, one to the lower left, three to each top corner. The ball passing through channels in the air.

He doesn’t realize David is there until he’s directly next to Silva. David’s wearing tight black jeans and a pink vest, glowing in the twilight, over a white shirt. His hair is still damp from the locker room showers.

Silva sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye, then takes another shot. He misses.

David snorts. “Your dad coming soon?”

Silva blushes pinker than David’s vest and runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I think so.”

David’s already on his way away and home, but he calls over his shoulder, “And that shot needs work, Silva.”

Silva rolls his eyes and keeps shooting, but his skill is gone, and instead of the goal, he sees David.

Stupid- to watch David out of the corner of his eye all the time. Stupid- to know where he is after every goal, to know which pair of arms to find. “Stupid,” Silva tells his bathroom mirror, “stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Stupid, but this stupidity only crystallizes and intensifies, transforms and settles itself in Silva’s chest, flaring up at a glance or a touch. He feels like a teenage girl. But, he plays better than ever, plays like poetry, plays like a man possessed, plays like he loves the game more than anything.

They’re alone after a game, the hallway they’re standing in much too small. It’s easy to leap into David’s arms on the pitch, in front of thousands of people, but, oddly, impossible here, when they’re alone. Silva should keep his head down and slink out, but he can’t. He stops for a second and inhales through his nose, rolling his lip over his bottom teeth and cutting into it with his incisors, before cutting close to David (too close, a brush of shoulders, but he doesn’t care) and making his way out.

David lets him go until he’s almost out the door, then says, “Silva.”

Silva turns and leans against the doorframe, head cocked. “What?”

David pauses, and he might as well be making a run on goal, with the tension in his shoulders and the aggression in his eyes, then walks towards Silva. He stops, their faces six inches apart. Silva knows his eyes are wide, too wide, but he can’t narrow them any more than he can slow his breathing.

It isn’t a kiss, anymore than David’s feet kiss the ball before he strikes; it’s an attack, fast and sure, to the corner of Silva’s mouth. And before Silva can react he’s gone again.

“Are you going to spend the rest of your life jacking off, or are you going to ask me to fuck you?” David’s out the door, but Silva catches up and grabs his shoulder, face burning. “Fuck me.”

They drive to David’s house after Silva makes an excuse to his father, a half-smirk fixed to David’s face the whole way, but Silva doesn’t notice. Nor does he notice David’s house, pictures on the wall, a pink nursery peeking through an open door.

David shuts the door to his room by pushing Silva up against the door, catching the back of Silva’s head with his hand, muffling its thud into the wooden panels. Then David’s hands move downward, ruthlessly attacking and exploiting Silva’s weaknesses, not giving him a chance to retaliate. They strip off his jacket and shirt, undo the fly of his jeans and push him backward onto the bed. They grip his hips tightly, and all Silva can do is throw back his head and “oh god David oh god,” everything goes white.

He falls asleep, curled next to David, one arm draped over his waist, and wakes up alone. There’s a note on the bedside table: _Let yourself out. I’ll be in Barcelona for the rest of the week for my wife’s birthday, so don’t bother calling. David._

He takes the bus home and sits on his bed for a couple of hours, staring at the opposite wall, before he calls David.

“Hi, David? It’s Silva.”

He can hear people shooting amicably in the background.

“I know, I have caller id. Did you get home ok?”

Silva falls back onto his pillow. “I got home fucking fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Silence.

Then, David says quietly, perhaps regretfully, “You knew I was married, Silva.”

Silva bites his lip. “I knew. I know. But - ” On the other end of the line, he can almost see David pull his hand along his jaw line, thoughtfully. “But I…”

He can see the cynical smile, too, the barely revealed teeth.

“I’ll call you when I get back, okay?” David’s tone is strangely soft again. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

One day when it rains, a month, two months later, when the clouds unburden themselves suddenly and completely, and they play together in the park by Silva’s house, churning the grass to mud. Two girls stop and take pictures with their cell phones, pictures of the rain, and through that David’s soaked t-shirt and Silva’s Brazil shorts he got when he was 16 after the World Cup. They walk back to Silva’s house together, their hands (maybe) just barely touching. His parents aren’t home and Silva has forgotten his key, so they sneak in through Silva’s bedroom window, David’s foot catching in the sill and causing him a rare moment of inelegance. He curses under his breath.

Silva has wished for so many things like this, pulling off their clothes in his bathroom, David pushing him up against tiled shower wall, the unforgiving line of his shoulders. But David shed his clothes like a snake sheds skin, he doesn’t close his eyes when he kisses and they burn black, Silva’s feet start to slip and David’s grip is tight on his bicep: these unpredicted details make his head spin (or is that David’s hands down his back?)

Afterward, David throws his clothes into the dryer and flops on Silva’s bed, wearing a pair of Silva’s shorts, fixing the ceiling with a moody glare. Silva sits on his old swivel chair, half-heartedly spinning himself in circles, before catching himself on the corner of the mattress. David ignores him, and Silva is reminded of the old men he’s seen blowing smoke rings with a single-minded hopelessness.

“You okay?” Silva hazards to ask.

David’s abs contract and he rises to sitting position. “Never better,” he says, with his hazy grin. “But I could use a shirt.”

Silva blushes and David reaches over and ruffles his still-wet hair.


End file.
